THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


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.HUU 


V.'^iy.^^^f'TVOFN.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

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DATE 

°KC  3 1  200! 

^^^^  RET 
DUE 

^_  CI 

Form  No.  513. 
Rev.  1/84 

1 

HUMANITY 

A  VISION  -  A  REALITY 

A  POEM 


BY 

WM.  TOD  HELMUTH 


NEW  YORK 
E.   P.   DUTTON   &  COMPANY 

31  West  Twenty-third  Street 
1887 


Copyright 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 
1887 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/humanityvisionarOOhelm 


A  VISION. 


-'"■^  'Twas  eve  in  Pisa : 

The  lovely  haze  of  an  Italian 
sky  — 

Known  to  no  other  clime  — 
was  dropping  soft 
Upon    the    distant  hills, 

whose  purple  crests 
Rose  clearly  on  the  azure 

horizon  ; 
And     from     the  summit 
of  the  Campanile  — 


Which    ever  leans  defiant 

of  the  law 
That  holds  the  planets  in 

their  devious  course  — 
The  heavy  and  harmonious 

bells  rang  out 


The    compline  call. 

Over  the  Baptistry, 
The  full-orb'd  moon, 
with    silvery  halo 
bright, 
The  dome  and  figure 
of    St.    John  be- 
deck'd. 
A    balmy    air  was 
wafted    from  the 
sea, 

Stirring   the  soil   from   far  Jeru- 
salem, 

Which  round  the  moonlit  Campo  Santo  lay,* 
As,  with  a  heart  on  contemplation  bent, 
I  entered  the  Duomo  and  sat  down 
Beneath  Del  Sarto's  picture  of  St.  Agnes, 
Whose  face,  angelic  in  its  purity. 
In  peaceful  adoration  seems  to  rest. 


*  In  the  year  1223  the  Pisans  brought  soil  from  Jerusalem  and  placed  it 
around  the  Campo  Santo,  that  the  bodies  of  distinguished  persons  might  be 
buried  in  the  sacred  earth. 


Above  me,  from  the  darkness  of  the  dome, 
Suspended  still  there  hung  the  lamp  of  bronze, 
Which    to    the    mind  of 

Galileo  taught 
The  measurement  of  time ; 

and  as  the  youth,* 
Whose    heart  triumphant 

then  was  throbbing  loud, 
His  finger  on  his  beating 

pulses  laid. 
He  found  the  index  to  the 

health  of  man. 
Then,  as  the  incense-bear- 
ing air  in  wreaths 
Was  borne  aloft  into  the 

vaulted  roof. 
The  red-robed  cardinals  in 

reverence  bent 
Before  the  altar  high,  while 

solemn  chaunt 
Resounded    sweet  through 

arch  and  architrave. 


*  Galileo  was  but  eighteen  years  old  when  he  discovered  the  rhythm  of  the 
pulse. 


A  vision  fair  insensibly  did  steal 
Over  my  senses  in  that  holy  place, 
And,  as  the  pendulum  swung 

on,  there  came 
A    soft   sweet    music   with  a 

rushing  wind, 
And  lo !    St.  Luke,   the  lov'd 

physician,  rose 
Stretching  his  hands  aloft  o'er         '^^^  i 

all  the  earth. 
Breathing  a  blessing  and  a  prayer  for  those 
Who  to  the  suffering  and  the  sick  devote 
The  tenure  of  their  lives. 


Then,  as  the  strains, 
Reechoing,  died  within  the  sacred  arch. 
In  voice  harmonious  to  my  Hst'ning  ear 
The  great  Recorder  of  the  Gospel  spake :  — 
" 'Tis  not  the  sounding  word  or  brazen  tone, 
"  Or  knowledge  deep  and  vast  as  boundless  seas  ; 
"  Or  keen  intelligence  which  ever  looks 
"Into  the  motives  of  which  acts  are  born; 
"  Nor  gold  which  proselytes  the  world  and  buys 
"  Men's  hearts  and  souls,  fooling  the  gaping  crowd, 
"  By  cloaking  ignorance  or  gilding  sin ; 
"  Nor  is  it  yet  the  skilful  hand  that  opes 
"  The  sacred  cavities  of  thought  and  life 
"In  nature's  citadel,  —  defies  disease, 
"And  rears  a  bulwark  'gainst  advancing  death, — 


'Tis  not  all  these,  or  yet  the 
occult  lore 

Of  root  and  mineral  and  herb 
that  make 

The  true  physician.  One  or 
all  may  raise 

His  name  in  worldly  estima- 
tion high, 

And,  trumpet-like,  proclaim 
him  as  a  God 

Around  the  circle  of  his 
habitat ;  — 

And  men  may  call  him  great 

and  women  bow 
E'en   at  the   mention  of  his 

very  name. 


But  here  'mong  saints  and 

heav'nly  hosts,  who  look 
Beyond    the    flimsy  veil 

appearance  casts 
Over  the  action  of 

each  mortal  man, 
The   first,  great, 

grand  absorbing 

attribute 
Of  him  who  tends 

the  suffering  of  his 

race, 

Must  be  that  large 
Humanity,  which 
holds 

Within  itself  enduring 

faith  and  love,  — 
Humanity,  which  recks  not  of  itself. 
And  from  whose  soil  indigenous  there  springs 
Sweet  charity  for  every  fellow-man  ; 
Humanity  which  all  resplendent  shone, 
Throughout  the  pathway  of  the  Son  of  God, 
Who  at  the  marriage  feast  of  Cana  turned 
The  water  into  wine,  and  wept  aloud 
Beside  the  grave  of  Lazarus  dead,  and  who, 


With  pitying  voice  and  mild,  forgiving  eyes, 
"  Forgave  her  taken  in  th'  adult'rous  act 

When,  conscience-stricken,  her  accusers  fled." 
Starting  I  woke ;  the  organ  strain  had  ceased ; 
The  ghmmering  taper  to  the  Virgin  burned 
Before  the  shrine,  and  stillness  reign'd  supreme. 


With  echoing  footsteps  through  the  arches  dark 
Into  the  open  night  I  passed.    The  stars 
Looked  down  upon  the  city  sleeping  there 
Beneath  the  moonlit  sky.    And  as  I  stood 
Upon  the  lighted  bridge  which  Arno  spans. 
The  faint  halloo  across  the  water  borne, 
Or  echoing  row-locks  from  revolving  oars, 
Proclaimed  belated  boatman  on  the  stream. 


That  night  till  dawn  all  sleep  forsook  mine  eyes, 
And  on  the  vision  I  had  seen,  my  thoughts 
Revolving  rapidly,  each  other  chased. 
Abou  Ben  Adhem's  dream,  in  which  the  name 
Of  him  who  loved  his  fellow-men  receiv'd 
The  place  of  honor  in  th'  celestial  courts, 
Haunted  my  restless  fancy,  and  I  thought 
How  many  noble  hearts  and  mighty  men 
Have  fought  unceasingly  with  human  woe, 
Have  braved  the  pestilence  and  faced  the  scourge, 
And  when  contagion,  with  its  loathsome  grasp. 
Has  filled  a  city's  streets  with  piled  up  dead. 
Rearing  one  vast,  disgusting  charnel-house,  — 
Have  with  unflinching  zeal  their  duty  done, 
Rendering  their  lives  a  sacrifice  for  men. 
Remaining  yet  unhonored  and  unknown. 


And  then  a  simple,  touching  incident 
Unfolding  faith,  humanity,  and  love. 
Self-sacrifice  and  death  before  me  rose, 
And  'tis  recorded  here  in  that  it  bears 
Upon  the  vision  I  had  lately  seen. 


/'/  / 

/      ■  \ 


REALITY. 


The  battle's  heat  was  over, 

The  bloody  fight  was  won, 
And  on  the  dead  and  dying 

Shone  out  the  Christmas  sun.  — 
A  Christmas  in  the  tropics, 

So  warm,  and  bright,  and  fair. 
Had  been  a  day  of  bloodshed, 

Of  triumph  and  despair. 
Afar  Majuba's  mountain 

Rose  clear  athwart  the  sky 
While  wreathing  smoke  of  cannon 

On  every  peak  did  lie. 


p  the  shadow'd  valley 
Along  the  fertile  plain, 
The  sites  of  fearful  carnage 
Were  marked  with    heaps  of 
slain. 


While  here  and  there  a  soldier 

Wrought  painfully  for  breath, 
And  sturdy  men  and  stubborn 

Fought  hand  to  hand  with  death. 
Oft  comrade  bent  o'er  comrade, 

The  living  'mong  the  dead, 
To  catch  a  fleeting  whisper, 

Ere  soul  from  body  sped ; 


And  bronz'd  and  scarred  veterans, 

Who  faced  both  shot  and  shell 
The  morning  of  the  conflict, 

Were  lying  as  they  fell : 
Some  grasping  hard  the  musket, 

Some  clutching  at  the  air ; 
W^ith  features  set  in  agony 

Or  stony  in  despair. 


Amid  a  heap  of  wounded, 

The  surgeon  of  his  corps, 
With  shattered  Hmbs,  was  lying 

Unheeded  in  his  gore. 
All  day  amid  the  battle, 

'Mid  shot  and  bursting  shells, 

Amid  the  groans  of  wounded, 

Or  loud,  triumphant  yells, 
Courageous  in  his  duty. 

Calm  in  his  sense  of  right. 
Amid  the  crash  of  cannon 

And  thunder  of  the  fight. 
He  gave  the  wounded  comfort. 

To  suffering  men  his  aid. 
On  many  a  gash  of  sabre 
His  gentle  hand  was  laid. 


His  presence  cast  a  halo 

O'er  ambulance  and  tent, 
And  voice  and  eye  spoke  blessings 

Wherever  Langdon  went; 
Till,  bending  at  his  duty, 

The  foremost  in  the  line, 
A  murderous  missile,  straying. 

Went  crushing  through  his  spine. 


And  lo  !  beside  the  surgeon 

A  wounded  soldier  lay, 
Whose  record  had  been  glorious 

Throughout  the  live-long  day. 
A  ghastly  wound,  and  bleeding, 

Gaped  open  on  his  thigh. 
Its  agony  evoking 

One  long,  low,  wailing  cry. 


As  moaning  winds  in  autumn 

It  fell  on  Langdon's  ear, 
Till,  growing  strong  and  stronger, 

Still  clearer  and  more  clear, 
He  roused  himself  from  stupor, 

And  turned  his  languid  eyes, 
To  find  from  whence  proceeded 

Such  agonizing  cries. 
They  rested  on  the  soldier,  — 

The  features  well  he  knew,  — 
And  in  a  startled  whisper 

Cried,  "Donald,  is  it  you?" 


They  had  been  boys  together ; 

In  manhood  came  a  strife, 
Which  deadly  feud  engendered, 

Embittering  each  life. 
And  now  beside  each  other, 

Both  racked  with  fearsome  pain, 
The  soldier  and  the  surgeon 

Met  face  to  face  again. 


I  wronged  you,  foully  wronged  you," 
The  soldier  faintly  said, 

"  But    she   who    sowed   the  dis- 
cord 

Disgraced  my  home,  and  fled. 
iSf.  '  "       "  But,    oh  ! "      ( He    writhed  in 
(  ; 'Z^'''  '  ,  ,  agony.) 

'  '111  '  "  ^  ^^^^^^ 

nine  lie ; 

•  ''But,    Langdon,    dear,  forgive 

me, — 

"  Shake  hands  before  we  die." 
His  arm.  he  stretched  out  feebly. 
The  space  was  far  too  wide, 
He  swooned,  —  and  for  a  moment 
Then  ebb'd  the  crimson  tide. 


The  light  of  life  rekindled 

In  Langdon's  dying  gaze, 
And  o'er  his  face  stole  sweetly 

The  light  of  other  days. 
Then  rising  on  his  elbow, 

With  superhuman  might 
He  beckoned  to  a  sergeant 

Then  coming  into  sight. 
Come,  comrade,"  said  he  faintly, — 

"  Come,  drag  me  there  to  him, 
"  And  wipe  my  sweating  forehead, 

"  My  eyes  seem  growing  dim. 
"  Yon  haversack  lies  open. 

Look  there,  beside  my  flask, 
A  leathern  case,  —  oh,  hasten  ! 

"  God  strengthen  for  the  task. 

I  know  that  I  am  dying, 

"  But  still  my  hand  is  strong, 
"So,  —  let  me  rest  against  your  breast; 
It  will  not  take  me  long." 


The  damp  of  death  was  falhng 

On  Langdon's  palHd  face, 
While  with  his  trembhng  fingers 

He  opened  wide  the  case, 
Then  with  a  smile  of  triumph 

He  took  the  polished  blade, 
And  with  a  skill  unerring 

The  bleeding  point  displayed, 
And,  while  his  life  was  ebbing. 

The  spouting  vessel  tied. 
"  Good-bye  !  "  he  said,  and  sinkin 

On  Donald's  shoulder — died. 


The  Christmas  stars  were  burning 

Bright  in  the  vault  above, 
When  Donald's  life  returning 

He  recognized  the  love, 
That  thus  in  death  forgave  him, 

As  Christ  upon  the  tree. 
Displayed  the  last  example, 

Of  his  humanity. 


